


braver to love

by requin_renard



Category: Tintin - All Media Types
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Breaking Up & Making Up, Complete, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, M/M, Mild Blood, Period-Typical Homophobia, Self-Hatred, cuthbert knows more than he lets on, dw they get back together, haddock simps a bit, kill your darlings tbh, lots of bickering, there's like 2 homophobic slurs that's it, tintin has a lot of attitude, tintin just wants to be gay and write
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-20
Updated: 2021-03-02
Packaged: 2021-03-16 21:53:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,606
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29582643
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/requin_renard/pseuds/requin_renard
Summary: Unfortunate events force Tintin to choose between the career he loves and the man that loves him. Haddock makes a choice of his own. A brief four part examination of how far people will go to keep each other's happiness.(tw. there are two instances of homophobic slurs and one incident of a hate crime. neither of them are particularly detailed.)
Relationships: Archibald Haddock/Tintin
Comments: 2
Kudos: 17





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> a wrote a lot of this fic listening to sufjan stevens and ,,, you can tell. 
> 
> 'pédé' is a french equivalent to the f----t slur. it only appears once.

There was no great moment of confession, they simply slipped into the roles of lovers. Like being out on a walk and only realising it is raining by the time you are soaked through, they drifted into the realm of romance without a startling epiphany. Their friendship already existed in such a fierce state of intensity that it was hard to determine where the line between ‘friends’ and ‘lovers’ had been crossed.

It crept up in pockets of quiet space – the desire to stay up late in the snug armchairs together by the fire, long after the rest of the Moulinsart residents had retired to bed. At first they would inch their chairs closer, legs touching silently, Tintin placing his small palm onto Haddock’s armrest and the other gently laying his own hand over it. Then, on a braver night, Haddock pulled Tintin into the crook of his lap and they sat, both pink and tingling, staring into the fireplace and shyly avoiding each other’s glances. Tintin’s hands found their way into the tousled black tangle of Haddock’s hair and they decided that yes, this was exactly how things were supposed to be.  
They didn’t go out of their way to keep it a secret from Calculus and Nestor, but didn’t flaunt it either. They found private moments on afternoon strolls where they would link hands in the secrecy of the woodlands or in sunny mornings spent lying side by side on a tartan blanket rolled out in the meadow. When they went out into town they acted as before, no touching, other than a familial clap on the back or a friendly squeeze of the shoulder.

  
They liked it like that; not too secret, but not overt. They suspected their fellow house guests had guessed as much anyway and merely regarded it as something not worth commenting on. They only had to be careful when it came to the press and wouldn’t let themselves get too close in the public light. Tintin’s profession would suffer greatly if the truth got out and regardless, they felt it wasn’t the world’s business to know. Haddock had hated being dubbed as Castafiore’s fiancé and that was just harmless rumour-mongering – their sweet blossoming relationship felt too sacred to ever venture further than the knowledge of their nearest and dearest.  
They had opened up a streak of vulnerability within each other that they nursed like bashful teenager lovers.

Tintin lifted Haddock out of the depths of age and wretchedness and helped the sun keep rising each morning. In turn, Haddock kept Tintin tethered to reality, provided something for him to tie himself when he felt himself being rushed off into adventure. They balanced each other so perfectly Haddock joked that their chance meeting had instead been a powerful divine intervention.

-

He slid his key into the grand wooden doors with a slight groan. Milou gave a sharp yipping noise of urgency as they entered into the hallway and Tintin hastily shushed him. The silencing was in vain, as the moment his shoes tapped onto the tiles three figure came rushing out of the drawing room.

“Tintin, blistering barnacles, where on earth have you been?” Haddock immediately flew to his side but the younger man brushed him off not unkindly. He held a tentative hand to the cut beneath his eye and winced, making his way towards the stairs with intent. He wasn’t quite ready to deal with their flapping and henpecking at that moment. His face stung, white hot, and his pride hurt even more. He just wanted to spend a sobering few moments alone in the bathroom and pull himself together.

“Do you want anything, Mister Tintin? Can I get you a poultice? Some ice?” Nestor fretted. The gaggle tripped over themselves as they trailed after him. He felt swamped.

“I’m fine, honestly, Nestor,” the boy managed with a grimace. “Nothing I haven’t handled before.” Calculus stood anxiously wringing his hands in the doorway, “You walked into a door? You should look where you’re going, dear boy.”

“Are you sure?” Nestor pressed. “I can call for the doctor-”

“Thundering typhoons, Nestor, you’re worse than a bleating mother,” Haddock barked. He could sense the younger man’s unsaid plea to be left alone. Tintin gave him a grateful look. “Didn’t you hear the boy? He said he’s fine.”

“Just give me a moment,” Tintin said with forced brightness. “I’ll just go and clean myself up.” The boy ascended up the stairs hastily, Milou quick behind him.

Tintin was grateful to lock himself alone in the bathroom. He leant against the wood with a ragged sigh and cast his gaze downwards towards Milou. The dog sat keening at him, head tilted to one side.

“How am I supposed to explain this then, boy?” he asked wearily. He took off his coat and bundled it into the bathtub, the blood stains making him wince slightly. Then he stripped off his shirt and jumper and stood at the sink, staring blearily into the mirror.

The cut beneath his eye dropped blood into the white porcelain. They bloomed like tiny roses in the snow. Tintin frowned, quickly turned the hot tap and washed them down the plughole. He took a damp wash cloth and gently wiped the dried blood from his face, the mud and dirt that was a result of the tussle. He inhaled a hitching breath as he lifted up his vest and examined the mottle skin of his abdomen. The thugs had truly winded him with a blunt knock to his solar plexus; he’d lain there, gasping and fighting for breath, as they laughed and ran off into the night.  
His right eye was already shining to a sickly purple. He cursed the man for having worn a ring, though thanked his lucky stars that it was only his cheekbone the fist connected with. He wondered if he could have been blinded and suppressed a shiver.

With a stifled grunt he reached into the medicine cabinet and brought out the anti bacterial salve to rub into the cut. The tap continued to gush and filled the room with steam; he welcomed the sound, the white clouds that surrounded him, as they drowned out the biting recollection of the attack.

Minding his business, head ducked low. They’d seen him from yards off, probably recognising his giveaway trousers and coat. One from behind, one in front; they punched him once, twice in the face and then knocked him hard in the chest and sent him flying.

“ _P_ _édé_ ,” One spat as Tintin law sprawled on the street. Milou growled ferociously and made to bite at their heels but they had already fled the scene, laughing horribly. Tintin lay, attempting to catch his breath for a moment. He should know better than to walk through such areas of Brussels at this time… no! No – he had as much of a right to walk through anywhere he desired as anyone did. Didn’t he?

He pushed himself upright, spluttered, one hand clasped to his aching face. He could feel the hot wet blood on his palm and breathed shakily. Milou pawed against him, making concerned yapping noises.

“It’s alright, boy,” he wheezed. “I’m alright. Come on, let’s get home to Moulinsart.”

Once back on his feet he walked out of the city quickly and along the country lanes in a daze. He ceased to be aware of his surroundings, only focusing on getting back to the château. He’d been on his way to the taxi-rank before he was ambushed, but now couldn’t face the idea of having to explain himself to a stranger. Instead, Tintin lowered his head and simply marched onwards, his mind seemingly detached from his body. It took him nearly an hour to walk home and the idea of the well-meaning but suffocating gaggle of concern he would receive on his return made him walk slower. It was almost midnight by the time he was dragging himself up the drive. The lights were still on; they were all stilling waiting for him.

“ _Tsss_ ,” he hissed, teeth bared, as he smeared the salve onto the cut. He’d patched himself up more times than he cared to remember but the pain never seemed to lessen. The tea tree scent and the stinging of exposed flesh made his eyes water and he stared hard at himself in the mirror again, eyes streaming. He gripped the sides of the sink

“You are better than this,” he murmured. “You have dealt with far worse.”

There was a staccato knock at the bathroom door. A specific percussive pattern that let him know there could only be one person behind it. Tintin quickly went and turned the lock in the door, opening it a crack.

Haddock stood with a bundle in his arms and a worried brow. Tintin drew him in quickly and locked the door again.

“I brought you some ice,” he said, offering the package to the boy. Tintin took the tea towel and held it up against the aching eye socket, letting out another high hiss. Haddock’s brow furrowed. “Are you going to tell me what’s happened, now?” He came to perch on the side of the tub behind the boy, looping his arms around his waist. They stared at their reflection in the cabinet; Tintin, peaky and bruised, Haddock’s weathered face peering over his shoulder in agitation. Strong arms holding him gently around the torso. Holding him upright, away from the danger. He let himself lean against the other’s solid form.

“It depends,” wearily, the boy said, adjusting the ice. “Do you promise you won’t be upset?”

“I can promise no such thing,” the sailor curtly replied. Tintin smiled wanly.

“I got jumped, in the city,” he explained. “Some intolerant oafs. They knocked me about a bit and then called me something rather distasteful before fleeing."

He felt Haddock’s chest stiffen behind him.

“Those troglodytes, those evangelicals!” he began to splutter. He leapt up and put his rough hands on the boy’s shoulders and spun him round to face him. “You mean to say you were attacked? That you weren’t even...”

“No, I wasn’t looking for trouble, for once,” Tintin interrupted bitterly. “If that’s what you’re going to say. I suppose it was my own fault – I should know better than to walk through that neighbourhood after dark...”

“People should know better than to clobber any poor fellow minding his own damn business,” the other snapped. “Did you see their faces? Look, I’ll get on the phone to the police this instant-” Haddock went to leave but Tintin grabbed a hold of the larger man’s shoulder.

“Mm, this is why I didn’t tell you all before,” he muttered. “I knew you’d get like this. And what can we say? ‘Oh yes, _bonjour_ police, some men called me a homosexual and flattened me in the street. By the way, please take no notice of whatever they called me, because I promise it’s not true.’ It just ….” he paused, looking away. “It opens up far too many roads of enquiry than we need to deal with right now.” Haddock nodded in mute understanding and frowned again.

“If I ever see those bashi-bazouks,” he shook his fist, looking violent. “those thundering degenerates, those wastes of oxygen, I swear, I’ll give them a beating they won’t forget!” Tintin squeezed his shoulders affectionately.

“You’ll do no such thing,” he said. “You’re far too old to be getting into scraps these days.”

Haddock, placated, reached down and cupped the boy’s uninjured cheek. He thumbed the delicate skin beneath his bottom eyelashes. It was covered in a constellation of freckles.

“Well, for what it’s worth, I still think you look handsome,” Haddock said wryly. “The black eye adds a bit of an edge to the pretty golden boy routine.”  
“Oh shush,” Tintin blushed and pushed his hand away weakly. “You silly old fool.”

“I am but a fool for you.” Haddock crooned with a wink.  
Once Tintin had placed a sticking plaster over the cleaned cut, together they went back downstairs and he told an abridged version of his encounter to the other two.

  
He wore his black eye proudly round the house. He would not surrender to the fear.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tintin faces public backlash as his relationship with Haddock comes under fire.  
> Haddock makes a tough decision. Tintin disagrees.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> get ready for some scrapping... this is rly long, the longest of all of them but stick through it !

Tintin took some time to work from home, not wanting to draw any attention to the battering and where it might have come from, or why.  
He was not desperate to set foot in the city for a small while. Haddock was pleased the boy chose to stay close to home and doted on him, bringing endless cups of tea and slices of bread and jam, small buttered scones, freshly peeled oranges to the study. Tintin received his treats with a shy reverence.  
“I’ll give up going to the office completely, if this is what the alternative is,” he said, reaching to plant a brief kiss on his lover’s cheek. “I could get used to this.”  
“It’s nice to have you around more during the week,” Haddock placed a warm hand on the back of the other’s neck, fingers stroking gently downwards. “You work far too hard; at least if you’re at home I can come in and interrupt you. Waft away the steam coming out of your ears,” Tintin waved him away playfully. Haddock crossed to the window and looked out. “The weather’s beautiful today – don’t you fancy a stroll? I’m sure old Milou wouldn’t mind.” The sailor rubbed the dog behind the ears.  
  
“I see your game,” Tintin grinned and turned back to his typewriter. “Off with you. I’ve got another thousand words to go before I can come out to play. Stop distracting me.”  
“Foiled again,” Haddock gave a loud mock sigh and pushed his hands into his pockets.   
“Out,” Tintin repeated and stuck out his tongue. “Your charms are useless here.” The Captain feigned a scowl and left the room, humming good naturedly. Once the door swung shut behind him, Tintin placed his face in his hands and looked down at Milou. The dog looked at him with seeming understanding.  
“Oh Milou,” he confided softly. “I love him so much sometimes I think I could die.”

-

He had not anticipated so much of a social interest in his return to the offices of _Le Petit Vingtieme_. The bruise had faded enough, the cut nicely healed and so he decided it was time to go back. The longer he left it, the more edgy he would feel about being back in Brussels. He bit the bullet and sent a telegram to his editor, letting him know he would be back the following day.  
It was a quiet Tuesday morning, so he thought. He rounded the street corner, the newspaper offices coming into view. There was a great crush of nearly thirty reporters or so on the street, camping out with notepads and tape recorders. He swallowed nervously and wondered if it was too late to turn and try to go through the back entrance. His editor must have leaked that he was returning to work. He trusted him, and had told him he’d been set upon by thugs, but no more.  
Though many called him the Boy Reporter, he always tried to correct them that he was indeed a journalist. Reporters hounded people with flashbulbs and screamed questions at them. Journalists went and sought out their own interesting material and conducted very polite interviews. He would never be caught dead in a crowd such as the one that was in front of him now. He sighed, tugged the collar of his coat tighter round himself and started walking towards them.  
“There he is!” someone cried. The mob turned to him, and he sighed, pushing his way through. His editor, a tall thin man who was often chewing on the end of a fat cigar, was stood on the steps at the front of the building, arms folded tightly. He looked irritated.

  
“Let him through, let him through, you hacks,” he called at the crowd as the small figure politely, but firmly, forced his way through. With some exertion, Tintin was spat out the other side of the horde and climbed the steps to the _Vingtieme_ office.   
“Mr Tintin! We heard that you were set upon in the streets some days ago?” a woman shouted above the din. The boy sighed and turned, standing in front of the crowd with his hands in his pockets.  
“That is correct,” he said tiredly. “I was walking near Casterman Street a few nights ago and was jumped by a pair of thugs.”  
“Have you filed a police complaint? Do you know who they are?”  
“No, and I don’t intend to find out. It was just a random mugging,” he lied. “Luckily I had nothing on my person for them to take.”  
“Come on now, he’s just trying to come back to work,” his editor called loudly and made a shooing motion. “No more questions!” he urged Tintin to enter the building with him and tugged on his coat sleeve. There was a sudden movement in the crowd. A reporter pushed through to the front, a ragged looking man with a large hat. He wielded a large tape recorder forwards.   
“Rumour has it the attack was a targeted crime, Mr Tintin! Is it true the nature of your relationship with Captain Haddock is something more than friendship? Do you care to confirm or deny?”

  
Tintin froze suddenly. He swallowed – how on earth did people know? No, it was rumours. Just rumours. He knew the ways of the press – on a slow news day people would float any old tripe just to fill up the word count. Surely no one had let it slip?  
To confirm would be a disaster. His profession would be done for, let alone his social standing.  
But could he deny? Could he deny anything he felt for that sweet, grizzled man? It made his chest ache wildly knowing that he had to stand there and lie about who he loved, simply to maintain an air of respectability. It took him a moment too long to answer. Perhaps the surprised flush in his cheeks had already given him away.  
“As we said, no more questions.” he said coldly. “I’m very sure my attackers were motivated by nothing but mindless callousness and violence.” His editor gripped him by the shoulder and steered him back in to the building. The gaggle of flashbulbs and notepads continued behind him but the revolving door swiftly shut them out. Tintin let out a shuddering breath. He reached to touch the small scab on his cheekbone as they marched along to the main office.

  
“Whatever your connection with that man is,” his editor uttered in a low voice. “I think you’d be wise to go on record saying the rumours are false. I can’t be having this pantomime outside my building every day– you already cause enough trouble as it is.”  
Tintin stopped and spun round in the corridor. How dare he? Stand there and tell him how to live his life. How to go about things so personal and close to his heart.  
“You are my boss, sir, and I respect you for that,” Tintin said icily. “But if you dare to ever tell me how I should conduct my own personal affairs again, you will have made a sorry mistake.”  
He shrugged off the grip on his shoulder and charged ahead down the corridor away from him. He had hot angry tears welling and made a bee line for the men’s bathroom, where he locked himself in a stall and sat angrily weeping for a good half an hour, fists balled into the sides of his trousers. He wished Milou was there to lick at his hands and nuzzle him.  
The people of his city he loved so much had suddenly become such enemies to him. He no longer felt safe in its streets.

\- 

The Moulinsart breakfast table was always a place of equal sanctity and mayhem. Calculus often poured over large papers, leaving ring marks over the blueprints as he juggled cups of tea and plates of toast with thermonuclear equations and rocket engine plans. Tintin sat opposite him, eagerly scanning the pages of at least three newspapers a time between bites of porridge that was nearly always cold and half abandoned by the end of the meal due to innumerable distractions. They sat in silence against the sound of the morning radio and the rustling of papers and cutlery clinking against the plates.  
Haddock was at the head of the table, looking between the pair of them and sighed audibly. When Tintin wasn’t watching, he fed tidbits of bacon to Milou who was begging at his side.

  
“The morning conversation is always so riveting, gentlemen,” he rumbled into the silence of the room. Calculus ignored him, either not hearing or too involved in his papers. Tintin gave a scoff and pushed his foot up against the older man’s under the table comfortingly.  
“You can talk to Milou, can’t you?” he teased without looking, flicking through another page. “Don’t think I can’t see what you’re doing.”  
Haddock looked down at the small dog. They exchanged guilty expressions.  
“You know,” Haddock leaned back, feeling impish. “at sea sometimes, we’d talk about the quality of the pisses we’d had that night-”  
“Captain!” Tintin chided. “Great snakes, no one wants to hear that.”  
“Kisses?” Calculus looked up and blinked at him. “Who was there for you kiss on a merchant vessel several thousand miles out to sea?”  
Haddock made a groaning noise and put his head in his hands. Tintin coloured slightly and laughed.  
“Pissing! I was talking about pissing! Now I remember why we never talk at the breakfast table,” he thudded his fist on the tabletop. “You’re too blistering deaf to hear a thing!”  
“I’m not deaf, I’m a little hard of hearing, is all,” Calculus said mildly and turned back to his blueprints. “Kissing indeed.”  
  
Haddock, looking weary, turned to Tintin.  
“Anything interesting going on in your world this morning?” he asked doggedly. Tintin continued to flick through the paper and raised an eyebrow in mirth.  
“Not really, I- oh,” Something caught his eye. He stopped dead, feeling himself flush red hot.  
The story only took up half a page but he recognised an image of himself from outside the Vingtieme head offices. The headline: _Beloved Brussels Reporter Involved in Hate Crime Attack?_ He scanned down quickly, reading the rest of the text. _‘…failed to deny a romantic connection to fellow Moulinsart resident Captain Archibald Haddock...’_  
“What? What is it?” Haddock peered over his shoulder. Tintin ripped the page out with a jerk and pocketed it quickly. He couldn’t let the Captain see it – he hadn’t told him of the hacks that were waiting for him when he returned to work. He couldn’t bear thinking about how Haddock would react and he didn’t want to be the one to tell him either.  
“What if I wanted to read it!” the older man huffed. Tintin reached and gave him a brief squeeze on the arm.

  
“Er, I’ll show it you later. I just need to look something up,” he gathered up the other newspapers in his arms and pushed the chair back with an abrupt squeak. “Excuse me, _mes amis_.” He whistled Milou shrilly to follow him. Haddock sat there, dazed, watching him leave.  
“Am I the only person left here on Planet Earth?” he muttered and rubbed at his eyes. Calculus gave a titter.  
  
“Don’t you think you’re a little too old to be fathering children, Haddock? Kissing and birth, someone clearly has marriage on the brain this morning. You should find yourself a nice wife soon enough. Time is running out, you old bachelor.”  
Haddock gathered up his plate and Tintin’s abandoned bowl with a clatter and a countenance like thunder. 

Tintin wedged a book under the door of the study to make sure no-one could get in. He held the newspaper tearing out and read it again, the words making him hot and angry. His hands shook, meaning his gaze was constantly tripping over the text. He had to re read them both several times before he had finished them successfully. Then he shook out the other newspapers from under his arm and quickly searched through them for any mention of himself. Thankfully, the piece he was holding crumpled in his small hot hand seemed to be the only one. He rushed over to the desk and dug out the box of matches before flinging the window open.

  
He couldn’t let the Captain see this – it would only rile him up or make him nervous about their relationship. How many people had already read the story?   
It was already nearly ten in the morning – people would have read them over morning coffee. He tried to rationalise the situation – it was in one of the middle pages of Brussels’ lesser known publications. Realistically, there was a much lower chance of people reading it – it wasn’t a front page story. He knew well enough no one would be brave enough to put something like that on the cover. It was cowardly to publish it, and more shameful to only hide it between articles of exhibition reviews and the shipping forecast, rather commit to a story.   
Tintin tried to soothe his shaking breaths. With trembling hands he struck a match and sat fire to the clipping in his hand.  
“He can’t know about this,” he said aloud. He let the paper curl and turn to ashes in his fingers before brushing his hands of it and pulling the window shut. He knew Haddock would instantly tell him to pick his career over him if he knew the dilemma. He was also so irritatingly selfless and noble when it came to their relationship, Tintin half wished the wretched drunkard that had nearly thrown himself into the depths of space would come back and throw his weight around. Some selfishness was what was needed.  
He paced in agitation up and down the room. What was the next step? Well, he would write to the editor of the infernal rag and tell them he’d make sure they’d never publish again unless they stopped writing such slander. 

  
But then too much action sent out the wrong message – he didn’t want to protest too much. Hiding something made it all too obvious one was near a vein of truth. He ran a hand through his hair, mind buzzing.  
“For heaven’s sake, pull yourself together!” he muttered, hands clamping to his forehead.   
Complain to the other editor – yes or no?  
No – making too much of a fuss was far too suspicious.   
Make a public statement denying their relationship?   
Did he really have it in him, to stand in front of the world and deny that he was entirely devoted to a sullen retired sailor who smelt like salt and made him feel giddier than a schoolboy? He wasn’t sure that he could.   
He sighed loudly again. In a moment of flashing anger he kicked out against the desk with a cry. Milou barked in surprise. He’d never had these problems when he lived on his own. He got by fine with only Milou by his side. Could he ever return to that life again?   
Why must he have to choose between the career that he loved and the man that he loved.

Tintin managed to compose himself eventually. He sat cross legged in the study and took several deep meditative breaths to soothe his hammering heart. Then he went to the bathroom and splashed himself with cold water and spent the rest of the day with Haddock, pottering around Moulinsart. He made up a quick lie about an article detailing the discovery of an ancient artefact somewhere in South Africa which Haddock had taken quickly.  
“Perhaps that will be our next stop? We haven’t had an adventure in a while,” he said warmly. Tintin gave him a distracted smile.  
“Maybe.” he said.   
  
They walked the grounds, made a lunch of tomatoes grown in their own garden. They played fetch with Milou and Haddock watched from the patio with a glass of juice as Tintin set about his exercise; three laps around the estate, several reps of press ups, star jumps, lunges. He noticed a strange anxiety, a distractedness in his young companion, but said nothing of it. Tintin did not take well to being pressed. If the boy had a problem, he hoped he would tell him in his own time.

Night fell and the inhabitants of the estate took to their usual evening spots. Calculus and Haddock played a game of rummy beside the fire whilst Tintin wrote up a transcript of some of his backdated shorthand notes in the corner. The fire crackled warmly in the grate and filled the room with a comforting backdrop of noise. Tintin had managed to straighten his nerves throughout the day. He feared going back into the city the next morning but knew he must; to carry on as normal, that was the plan. Anything out of the ordinary would look far too suspicious.  
  
He was grateful that Haddock refused to step on his toes. He wasn’t sure if he would be able to cope if his Captain had looked at him with those soft warm eyes and asked him what was the matter. He felt he would have shattered in his arms.

  
No, this was something that he had to protect them from. So many times the old sailor had come to save him when he’d been trussed up like a damsel in distress on one of their escapades. This time he would deal with it alone.  
There was a sound of shattering glass and a loud thud. Calculus gave startled cry, the brick having landed just beside his foot. Milou jumped up from his spot of the settee and barked loudly.  
Tintin rushed to brick; tied to it was a cutting of the same story he had burnt up that morning and a small typed note:

_Sodomites. Admit it and resign. We won’t have you polluting our youth with your ways._

He snatched up the paper dashed out of the room and out the front door, down onto the drive. It was raining and the coldness of the water shocked him. He could see the two receding figures sprinting down the drive away from him. He began to give chase but they disappeared through the gates and he heard the sound of an exhaust starting up.  
“You cowards!” he shouted into the darkness. “You cowards! It is far braver to love than it is to hate!” He stood, chest heaving, staring out at the fading headlights. Milou growled at his feet.  
“Tintin?” Haddock ran up behind him and threw an arm around his shoulders. “Did you catch the crooks? Could you see the number plate?”  
  
“No, they were too fast,” Tintin panted. His knuckles whitened as he gripped the sodden paper in his hand. “I couldn’t catch up to them. Is everyone alright? The glass-”  
“It’s sorted, Nestor is sweeping it up,” Haddock said soothingly. “Come in, thundering typhoons, you’ll be soaked to your skin out here.” He ushered Tintin back along the drive. “I saw there was something tied to the brick, what was it?” he asked. Tintin stiffened.  
  
“Please, it’s nothing,” the boy pleaded. “It was just a stupid bit of scaremongering.” Haddock frowned and ran his hand down the other’s arm to the tightly clenched fist. They stood on the threshold of Moulinsart, Nestor and Calculus watching in concern from the hallway.  
“Nonsense, any threat against you is a threat against the both of us,” he said firmly. He tried to ease the boy’s finger from around the paper. Tintin looked at him and shook his head erratically.

  
“Please, please don’t read them.” he whispered, eyes wide. Haddock stared at him. He shook his head and gently prised Tintin’s fingers from around the scraps of paper and squinted at them. The ink was streaming from the rain, bleeding black and purple splodges into his finger tips.  
Tintin stood, feeling like a ghost, as he watched Haddock’s expression. The wind whipped around them, the rain drops lashing against his bare skin like ice. He saw the moment of realisation on his lover’s face as he understood. Haddock looked up at him slowly, face full of nothing but warm, sweet, gentle pity. He was white as a sheet.  
“Oh, Tintin,” he said hoarsely, full of understanding.   
  
The boy gave a choked sob and fell against him. Haddock took him into his arms and promised he would make things alright.  
Neither of them believed it.

-

  
Haddock folded his legs, hands settled on either arm rest. He watched the young figure in front of him pace incessantly to and fro across the study floor.  
He was like a rat trapped in a cage, thrashing about in his panic. How often had their roles been reversed? Where he was the one pacing madly and blustering and tripping over himself whilst Tintin tried to calm him down. He realised suddenly that the other was afraid.  
  
“Tintin,” Haddock called gently. “Please, come and sit. You don’t have to be scared.”  
“I’m not scared, I’m angry,” Tintin replied quickly. “And I’m trying to think.”

  
Haddock sighed. He glanced at the clock. It was near one o’clock in the morning. He had plied Tintin with a small brandy to help him pull himself together. Calculus, perturbed, had lingered around until Haddock told him gently it was best for him to retire and they’d talk in the morning. No one had been allowed near papers that had been tied to the brick. Haddock had pressed them between two volumes of the French dictionary and they were currently on the radiator, drying out.   
“I always seem to figure my way out of things,” Tintin murmured. He finally came to rest in his endless transit and dropped into the chair beside Haddock. He brought a hand to his forehead “But this is something I can’t seem to work my way through.”  
  
“It’s love,” Haddock said delicately. “Love isn’t a story to be swiftly rapped up, or an article to get to the end of. It’s messy and indiscrete,” he took his hand in his. “And we will sort this out, alright?”  
“But how?” the boy asked. “There’s far too much at stake. I don’t have a clue what to do.”  
“You need to calm down, for a start,” Haddock said tentatively. “You’re wound up tighter than a spinning top, lad.”  
“Because I love you, for heaven’s sake,” the boy snapped. “And won’t be made to choose between you or my career.”  
There was a silence. Haddock gazed into the fire.  
“But if you had to?” he asked suddenly.   
  
He would sooner die than hold Tintin back. He had already lived the best of his life; he was nearing the twilight years, especially with the way his drinking and smoking had ravaged his body. Soon enough he would have to have to accept that Tintin had near fifty years ahead of him and that he would not be there for all of them. Perhaps it was his duty to be cruel to be kind.

  
It hurt him to think of this ending – of going back to friendship. He wasn’t sure if he had it in him. Would he be able to look him in the face as a friend, knowing exactly the sort of dark things he muttered in the throes of ecstasy? When he knew every inch of his body, when he had begun to think of that small frame and boyish grin as a place he called home? Haddock blinked and stared into the fireplace again.  
“Surely you’re not asking me that?” Tintin said, almost inaudible. Haddock leant back in the chair.  
“I won’t have you jeopardise your future, your life, over me,” measuredly, he said. He tried to ignore the aghast expression on the others face. “You have so much ahead of you, I won’t let you throw it away for me.”  
“You don’t get to make his choice for me.” Tintin said, his voice cutting the silence like a knife. “I just told you, I love you, Archibald.”  
The sound of his Christian name made him wince. Haddock swallowed.

  
“And I love you too, which is why I can’t let you give up your life, your dreams, just for me.” he said slowly. “I’ve been thinking, perhaps…” he swallowed again. “Do you know if Mrs Finch still has a vacancy?”  
“You want me to move out?” Tintin stared at him. “You want me to leave?” Haddock leapt out of the chair and onto his knees before the boy. He grabbed at his hands, kissing him, holding them tight to his face. He felt sick; God, he’d made such a mistake. Why had he even suggested it? He just wanted the boy to be safe, safe in his work, safe in his life. Safe with him. Was that possible?  
  
“No, no, of course I don’t want you to leave,” he stammered breathlessly. “I just thought… perhaps for appearances’ sake? I-It would take the heat off, if people saw we lived apart again.”  
Tintin stiffened. He sat as lifeless as a marionette for a moment before springing upwards. He scooped his dog up into his arms.  
“You want me to leave.” he repeated quietly. Haddock shook his head and wrung his hands.  
“No, thundering typhoons, you’re not listening to me!” he cried. He tried to grab at the boy but Tintin moved out of his way. His expression was frightening.  
“Did you just want me for sex? Was that it?” he flashed. “You just wanted a nice young body to play with every night? And now it’s all a little too complicated, and you want to abandon ship!”  
  
Haddock felt the nausea rising.  
“How can you say such a thing,” he hissed. “I love you. I don’t want you to go! I’m just trying to be practical – I’m just trying to protect you!”  
“Protect me?” Tintin laughed bitterly. Milou squirmed in his arms and he let him jump to the floor. “Funnily enough I always coped fine on my own. All this trouble only started with- with you.”  
“You don’t mean that,” Haddock shook his head. It had all gone so terribly wrong – Tintin didn’t do subtleties very well. He didn’t understand the language of nuance. With a heart that big, it could only be expected that one would throw themselves into something so completely head first. “It’s a precaution for you, I swear! I don’t want to be the reason you get publicly blackballed – I’m not worth you sacrificing everything you’ve worked for.”  
Tintin wiped angry tears away.  
  
“Why can’t I have both? Why can’t I have the job I love and the man I love?”   
“Because people are cruel, my sweet boy,” Haddock cupped his face. “I don’t want you to have to choose, so can’t you just let me make it easy for you?”  
Tintin tried to push him away but Haddock clung to him. Could he blame him? The sailor knew heartache made bullies out of the sweetest men.  
“I don’t want this to end,” Haddock said, sounding hoarse. “It’s just going to be different. Just for a bit. And once this has all cleared up you can come right back: I just can’t bear the thought of people hurting you for the sake of me. I just want you to be safe, lad. Can't you understand?”  
“Goodnight, Captain.” Tintin said and pushed the other away gently. “You’ve clearly decided all this for me.” He left the study without a backward glance. Milou paused in the doorway and looked over his shoulder. Haddock opened his mouth to say something and couldn’t. The terrier gave a sad whine and followed his master. Haddock was left in a deafening silence.

Tintin took with him his typewriter, a box full of books and the contents of his wardrobe. He stripped the walls of his room of the scrolls and tapestries he had hung up there, small remenants of the life he had lived in the time before Haddock.

  
“I’ve decided to be your friend,” he said very softly the next morning as he and Haddock sat out on the patio, having met something of a truce in their slumber. “I’m leaving some things, because I want to come back, some day.” he said thoughtfully. Haddock took a long drag of his coffee.  
“You will come back.” Haddock replied, voice rough and coarse. Tintin didn’t meet his gaze.  
“I lay thinking, last night,” he said after a moment. “and I think that you’re right; that we should be apart. It’ll protect us both.”  
“Tin,” Haddock started but the boy held his hand up to stop him.  
“Please,” he said very softly. “I’ve thought it all through. I’ll still come and see you. And you can see me. But it’s too dangerous to be… to be us...” he swallowed. “I would never forgive myself if anyone came after you too.”  
The pair sat in the morning sunshine but it barely seemed to touch them. They seemed a million miles away from each other. Haddock looked deep into his coffee and said nothing. Tintin occupied himself with picking blades of grass from Milou’s fur.   
“I think you've been very brave.” Haddock said finally. 

  
Tintin looked at him. Sky blue eyes, so bright, so flecked with endless amounts of virality. Haddock felt his chest explode like a supernova and they hastily looked away from each other.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hehe did u like the casterman reference


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tintin briefly returns from his travels in Turkey. Difficulties ensue.
> 
> “I’m someone who loves you far more than you’ll ever realise, which is why I have to release you, lad. I won’t let myself be the reason you come to nothing. You’d resent me for it, I swear; some day in the future you’d look round and think ‘I wish to God I had never stayed with this wretch, I could have won a Pulitzer.’”
> 
> “Don’t make jokes,” Tintin snatched away his wrist. “You’re right, I don’t know you: you’re cruel. I never thought you were a cruel man.”  
> “You’ll understand, one day,” Haddock whispered. “I promise. You’ll thank me for it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this was oof to write B-)

He dropped him off two days later, back in Labrador Road. Tintin looked so small, clutching nothing but the box for his typewriter and a large suitcase. They stood awkwardly on the threshold to the apartment.  
“Well,” said Tintin.

“Well.” Haddock echoed. They looked at each other. Haddock’s eyes roamed his face, but the boy had pulled down the unreadable mask. After making sure no one was around, Tintin leaned over and kiss him chastely on the cheek.

“Goodbye,” he said quietly. “I’ll see you soon.”

Haddock shook his hand, squeezing it tightly. He could hardly bring himself to let go.

“You will. I’ll be looking for you in the paper.” he said.  
  
And then he turned and left. He could barely remember driving back to Moulinsart. He found his body moved of its own accord. He floated down the drive, up the stairs, and found himself pushing open the door to the room Tintin had slept in before they started sharing a bed. There were marks on the wall where tapestries had hung, the wall space around them faded in the sun. Haddock sunk down on the bed. He lifted the pillow to his face breathed in his scent – fresh, like smell of the meadows they walked through, free and young and intoxicating. He wept, hand tangling in the bed sheets, feeling self-conscious, as if a spectral figure of the boy was watching over him.

-

Within a week of moving back into the city, Tintin wrote to Haddock and let him know he would be out of the country for some time. He had got himself caught up in something new.

Haddock hadn’t been surprised, he suppose the boy would rather take duelling with drug barons or chasing after international arms dealers over rattling round that tiny flat.

He was on the front page when he returned, beaming beside two cruel looking fellows in handcuffs. Haddock had smiled in spite of himself. He traced the shape of the boy’s blurred face with a trembling finger. He missed standing beside him, grinning at the press. They felt unstoppable.

-

“Where’s Captain Haddock, Mister Tintin? Has there been a rift between you?” a reporter pushed a tape recorder into Tintin’s face. He paused, rearranging his features.

“I-, no, of course not,” the laugh that rang out of him did not come easily. “The Captain has decided to retire from accompanying me on my travels for the time being. He’s taking a well earned rest at home.”

There was a murmuring from the airport crowd. Tintin excused himself from the press and hailed a taxi, continuing his weary way home. His small apartment waited for him, covered in a film of dust.

-

Haddock wrote to him and asked him to come for lunch at Moulinsart a few days after the press announced his return to Brussels soil. Tintin had initially been reluctant, unsure of how he could navigate the situation. Did the recent rumour of a rift cover them enough for one clandestine meeting?  
He was still annoyed with the Captain for making choices for him, but lying alone in his tent in the heavy Turkish sun, the Captain's rugged face had been only thing he'd thought of. The scratch of his beard against his chin, the sweet smell of his pipe. He felt consumed by his need to see him again, even in such turbulent circumstances, and so accepted with a telegram. 

“You look… well,” Haddock stood abruptly as Tintin was ushered into the drawing room by Nestor. He had a small leather holdall in clutched in his hand. He did look well – he was dusted red across the cheeks from sunburn and his hair had grown out slightly. There was a content, if not a little tired, expression that came from the satisfaction another case closed. Haddock knew it well.

“As do you, Captain!” the boy replied with a bright smile. Too bright?

They stood awkwardly, unsure of whether to hug or shake hands. They settled for a prolonged, unsteady handshake. It had been nearly a month since they had last spoken.

Haddock bade him to sit on the settee and watched Tintin closely. He felt impossibly far from him, like they were conversing through a thick pane of frosted glass. Any ease that had once been in their interactions had evaporated. They made stilted small talk, remarking on the weather and the new flowers Nestor had placed in the vase on the coffee table, especially for the occasion.

Tintin wondered if he’d made a big mistake coming back to Moulinsart at all.

Perhaps independence suited him. He’d told Haddock that he often felt unsure of how to rely on others, when so much of his life had been spent with only himself and his canine friend to carry him along. Maybe that was how it was meant to be. Even when he had lived at Moulinsart, he had been insistent on paying a monthly board despite the Captain’s repeated wavering.

Could Haddock have ever expected him to settle into domesticity? He knew a time would come where he would no longer be able to follow him across the world on a wing and a prayer.  
Tintin was someone who was made to never sit still. At the many gala dinners they had attended together Haddock often spotted him fidgeting and tapping his feet impatiently under the table, unable to remain inert for longer than an hour. He deserved to be out feeling the blaze of a foreign sun, feeling the hair tangling breeze of a Moroccan coast.

No, Haddock could never have expected to give up the thirst for adventure that ran through him like vein of ore. Tintin would have come to view Moulinsart like a gilded cage; comfortable, loving, but completely stifling. Haddock would have aged and wanted to permanently swap the confines of a flapping canvas tent to the reliable wooden masts of a four poster bed. And then what?

He would have grown old and forced the boy to resent him. Tintin had decades ahead of him – he wouldn’t have been able to stay in that house and nurse him and sit with him whilst Haddock careered into senility. Haddock would have reduced him to no more than a house pet, a pretty young thing to entertain, that should instead have been out sprinting through the dew dropped grass of a spring morning.

It was better this way. He was better free and unbound. Now he looked almost out of place amongst the stuffy furniture and oak panelling.

A thousand unsaid things were thick in the air. Tintin told of him of his adventure, the journey. The way he’d escaped death for the umpteenth time. Haddock told him life at the châteaux; that nothing had changed. Everyone and everything drove him round the bend. Cuthbert was frequently inventing and breaking things. Nestor spent a lot of hovering around in doorways, seemingly waiting for the next domestic disaster to happen.

“Not missing out on any fun then, am I?” Tintin said with a wry smile. Haddock returned it.

“No, merely three old men waiting to see which one kicks the bucket first.” he said, with a heavy bitterness. He had meant for it to come out as a joke, but Tintin instead frowned and looked away.

Cuthbert came pottering into the drawing room, arms wide.

“Tintin you’re back!” he crowed. Tintin, eager for the interruption, ran over to him and shook his hands with a nervous grin.

“Just a flying visit, I’m afraid, Professor,” he said loudly. “I’ve got a big report to write up.”

“We’ve missed you around here,” Cuthbert beamed at him, pausing to stare at the pendulum swinging in his grasp. “Old Haddock here has been quite insufferable since you took off.” Tintin’s gaze flickered to the surly man standing leaning on the mantelpiece who scowled and looked away.

“Well, your company isn’t always smooth sailing either, Cuthbert,” Haddock muttered, rubbing at his hair. Tintin shuffled on the spot, feeling uncomfortable, wondering how much of the situation Calculus knew.

“Ah,” he started, trying to thing of something to say, anything that would stop him from feeling so incredibly out of place. Calculus looked at him inquisitively.  
“So? How was it! And when will you be returning home for real?”

“Oh, I,” Tintin gave a faux-casual laugh. “Well, you know how it is, Professor, I’m very busy at the moment so it's, er, best I’m near the office. Perhaps in a few months or so. But Ankara was fantastic...” he began another animated recount of his time in Turkey, telling him a rather quicker and louder version of events that he had previously relayed to Haddock.

All the while the atmosphere seemed to sour. Tintin felt more and more uncomfortable. Haddock’s knuckles turned white as he gripped the mantelpiece tighter and tighter. Calculus, seemingly oblivious to any bad energy in the room, listened intently as he could and interjected several mishearings. Both parties were relieved when Nestor appeared and announced lunch would be served in an hour or so.

“Oh, now that reminds me,” Tintin reached into the holdall and brought out three small packages. “I brought a few things back for you all – Yes, even you Nestor. Don’t be silly,” he handed them out to the three men shyly. “Just little trinkets.”

For Nestor there was a brightly patterned silk hankerchief, for Calculus a small polished wooden box. For Haddock, he had bought an exquisite carving of a boat carving, painted a deep sea blue and red. He was awkward and overly gruff, the kindness of the boy after all he had done sending him dangerously close to the edge of oblivion. He really, desperately, needed a drink.

“Shall we, er, go for a walk? To kill time before lunch, I mean,” Haddock suggested with a rough clearing of his throat. He was keen to get out of the drawing room; it felt so oppressive, stifling. And he couldn’t bear to see Tintin standing there looking so awkward and lost, like an ornament one couldn’t quite find a suitable place for.

They took their usual route, down through the woods and beside the river for a stretch before they came to the perimeter of the meadow. They stopped beneath the shade of a tree for a brief handful of minutes and stared out at the long grass blowing lazily in the breeze. Milou ran playful circles out in front of them.

“You don’t seem happy to see me,” Tintin said suddenly in a small voice. “I can’t help feeling that perhaps I shouldn’t have bothered coming.”

Haddock let out a tired sigh and leant against the fencepost, not looking at him.

“Of course I’m happy to see you,” he replied. “I’m just… struggling to lie in the bed that I’ve made. I didn’t think it would be this… this hard.”

“It was _your_ decision,” Tintin said, a little harsher than he meant to. He swallowed, reaching over to touch the older man’s shoulder. “Won’t you look at me, Captain? I hate being treated like this. What’s going on with you, isn’t this what you wanted?”

Haddock turned and stared down at him. He was weary, so weary.

“I’ve made a fine mess of things, haven’t I?” he said in a tired voice. Tintin bit his lip. He worked his hand up along the crook of the other’s neck, resting his hand on his cheek. He palm was featherlight and Haddock had to stop himself was leaning into it.

“Well... why don’t we just forget it all?” he breathed, eyes shining. “Look, I couldn’t less about my job – I-I just want to be with you. What about that don’t you understand?”

There was a moment of silence between them, before Haddock seized him in his arms and kissed him roughly.

They staggered over to the tree, Tintin gasping at the force with which Haddock pushed him against the bark. They kissed desperately, feverishly grasping at each other with a burning intensity. Would he really sacrifice this?

Haddock suddenly stopped and tore himself away. He dropped his arms and reeled away from the other looking bereft.

“What?” Tintin, flushed, touched a hand to his throat. In the scuffle the top buttons of his shirt had come undone. Haddock tried not to gaze at the vulnerable pink skin. “What is it?”

“I can’t,” Haddock shook his head, hands coming up to clutch at his hair. “I can’t do this to you. I won’t, I refuse.”

Tintin, embarrassed, adjusted his clothing. He tentatively reached for Haddock’s hand but he caught his wrist in his sweaty fist. “Listen to me,” he said, holding the boy’s slender wrist tightly. “Please, boy, don’t try and argue with me for once.”  
Tintin stood obediently, looking wretched and expectant. “You may think you want this now, whilst I’m still on the right side of fifty, but soon enough I will be _old_ , lad. I will be sick, and crochety and I won’t be able to walk about or even clean my own arse. And I won’t make you sacrifice the life you love so much for that. For me. You say you couldn’t care less about your travels, but I know you’re lying.”

“You’re not being fair to me, Captain,” Tintin said quietly. He tried to retrieve his wrist but Haddock held onto it tighter.

“I am being fair, can’t you see? I am hurting you to save you, Tintin. It’s for your own good, I swear. I am not worth it. I am not the man who think I am.”

“Who are you to know what’s good for me?” the boy asked. He was almost petulant. Haddock sighed and gave him a sad smile that made Tintin’s chest seize up.

“I’m someone who loves you far more than you’ll ever realise, which is why I have to release you, lad. I won’t let myself be the reason you come to nothing. You’d resent me for it, I swear; some day in the future you’d look round and think ‘I wish to God I had never stayed with this wretch, I could have won a Pulitzer.’”

“Don’t make jokes,” Tintin snatched away his wrist. “You’re right, I don’t know you: you’re cruel. I never thought you were a cruel man.”  
“You’ll understand, one day,” Haddock whispered. “I promise. You’ll thank me for it.”

Tintin pocketed his hands and pushed a fallen twig around with the toe of his Oxfords. The sound of the wind rushing through the meadow almost deafened him. Something cold and harsh was gripping his chest tightly; he could scarcely breathe.

“I suppose this means the end, then? Of us.”

Haddock said nothing.

“Won’t you even be my friend?” he asked, almost inaudible. Haddock looked at him, heart aching.

“Are you sure you want me to be?” the older man replied.

Tintin looked away from him and out across the meadow. Time stretched on and on. Haddock had never hated himself more, but a small part of him felt triumphant. He’d done it – he’d saved Tintin. He couldn’t let someone so golden become tainted by himself. It was better to break his heart now to save him from having it broken over and over again in the future.

“I think Milou and I should be off,” he said. His voice was tight and cracking. “I don’t think I have anything else to say.”  
Haddock remained motionless, one hand leaning on the fencepost. He looked over at the boy, pressing his lips together. He was trying so desperately to hold back his tears.

“Please remember that I have done all this for you because I love you.” he said, voice thick. Tintin barely acknowledged him as he turned to go.

“I’ll try,” he said bitterly. “Please give the Professor and Nestor my regards, I… I don’t think I can come back here for some time.”  
Haddock nodded. He watched as the boy turned and left and took his heart along with him.

It would be better this way. Haddock wouldn’t let the worst parts of him taint him any longer.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A year has passed. Calculus finally works out the reason for Tintin’s disappearance and has words with the Captain. Haddock makes amends.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> calculus is a bit less deaf than usual in this chapter

They did not speak for nearly a year.

  
Tintin took several long excursions away from Brussels – come the evenings he found himself pacing the length of his living room trying to organise every thought and pain that swum around his head. Milou often sat and watched him from his spot in the armchair, whining in attempts at sympathy.

“Being cooped up in here is no good for either of us, boy,” Tintin muttered. “We should get away.”  
  


And so they did – suddenly every gala invitation, every exhibition, every snippet of a potential story that he sniffed out from the news, contacts, even what he overheard on the street, became something of deathly interest to him. He took more planes in that year than in his whole life thus far. He spent more nights under unfamiliar ceilings than he ever did in his cramped iron bedstead in Labrador Road.

  
When he thought of ‘home’ in foreign ports, he could only smell sweet tobacco and feel the scratch of a wiry beard against his cheek. He quickly pushed the thoughts away. No – home was wherever he and Milou were. That was how it had always been.

He brought back reams of shorthand and hastily typed up reports to his Editor. Tintin watched, shifting tiredly in his chair as the other man tapped his cigar repeatedly into a coffee cup at his elbow, humming thoughtfully.

“This is good, these are good reports,” the Editor nodded, impressed. He looked at the boy over the top of his spectacles. “Better than anything you ever brought me when you were knocking about with that old sailor.”

“Hm,” Tintin shrugged and folded his arms, saying no more.

With more writing came more money, came more travelling. He found himself with his feet in the warm sea on the coast of west Africa, wrapped in ski wear in the Alps, trekking through the remote woodlands of northern Canada. It seemed that no matter how far he and Milou travelled, it never seemed far enough. Of all the beautiful sights and thrilling tales and new friends he made, nothing could fill the gap beside him. He had a small album of photographs he’d taken on his travels and in each of the ones containing himself, he noted a small space to his right. As if, subconsciously, he had always stepped to the side to accommodate a space for the Captain.

-

Where Tintin decided to wander as far as possible, Haddock remained where he was. He shrunk deep into the recesses of Moulinsart, barely venturing further than the edge of his estate. Calculus tried to tempt him to accompany him on his conferences abroad but Haddock would have none of it.

“I’d rather stay here and keep an eye on things,” he waved him away. “I’m getting too old to bother with all that travelling. I’ve seen enough.”

Nestor was pleased to see he was still keeping away from the drink. Calculus had been producing batches of the tablets in haste, eager to keep his friend was pickling himself in his misery.  
Haddock spent long evenings with a cooling pot of tea at his elbow, sitting in a chair that he dragged over to the French windows and looking out across the lawn. He’d smoke half a tin of tobacco in a night if left unsupervised and Nestor got into the habit of coming in around half eleven at night to ask, firmly, if the Captain hadn’t thought he’d had enough.

Haddock was prone to two moods; one, of abject and remote misery where he would sit in one spot for hours at a time and be entirely unreachable by anyone. He would only mutter ‘yes’ or ‘no’ or ‘please leave me alone’ whenever Nestor or Calculus tried to approach him.

The other mood was a fierce rage that would grip him from time to time. At first, he took to his study and could be heard ranting and raving and hurling things to the floor in a fit of passion for hours at a time, only to emerge red face and placated.

Then, after Nestor’s suggestion, he invested in a leather punching bag. He dragged it across the lawn one grey morning and strung it up from the large beech tree to the south of the house. Haddock spent hours viscously striking the bag over and over, sparring until his knuckles were red raw within the gloves. Calculus would sometimes sit on the patio watching him, wondering how on earth he could reach his dear friend.

He knew it had something to do with young Tintin’s disappearance from the château. There had been no official explanation for the boy’s eviction. He had simply up and left and not returned since he had come back from Turkey. He knew Tintin had been away travelling because he and Haddock and Nestor would pour over _Le Petit Vingtieme_ whenever Tintin appeared. Several back issues were stacked up in the corner, bearing his smiling photograph and name, as if Haddock had placed them aside for an important unknown reason and never quite decided what to do with them after.

Calculus, curious, had since met with him for a stroll in the local park and Tintin had, very carefully, phrased together some sort of reasoning. They also had barely seen each other for a year. Each time before it had only been in passing, with no time for a deep delve into the mysterious circumstances of Tintin’s disappearance. Now Calculus was eager for answers, and answers that may help him break through Haddock’s crust of self pity.

“So, we had an argument, you see,” Tintin said with painful delicacy. “It was… it was over something I can’t see being resolved. Not any time soon, anyway.”

Calculus nodded, actually hearing him for once.

“I see,” he said with a hum. “Well, it’s such a shame. I do miss you, young man.”

Tintin gave him a sad little smile.

“Oh, I miss you too professor,” he replied and patted the other’s knee. “But you can always visit me, you know. Just phone ahead – it’s not you I have a problem with.”

Calculus’ brow furrowed. “You have a problem with me?” he asked hotly. Tintin sighed and shook his head, an amused smile tugging at his lips.

“ _No_ , I have a problem with _The Captain_!” he enunciated. Calculus made a noise of relief and nodded. Tintin fiddled with his hands in his lap. “How er, is he, anyway?”

“He is not well, my boy,” Calculus confided, almost theatrically. Now he was finally getting somewhere. He suppressed his excitement. Tintin tried to hide the worried expression on his face. “Ever since you moved out he’s been most peculiar. He’s either morose as a beggar or jumpier than a cat on a hot tin roof. It’s rather distressing to see.”

Tintin made a hum and leant back on the bench.

“Mm,” he touched his forehead. “That’s not good news.”

Deep in the ugliest part of him he felt a little pleased to hear that Haddock was suffering as much as he was. But still, the better parts of him ached in sympathy and he cleared the lump that threatened to gather in this throat. They made as much of an attempt as small talk as they could with Calculus’ hearing before parting warmly.

“Do look after yourself, won’t you, Tintin?” Calculus held his hand with uncharacteristic firmness. He eyed him with an intensity that made Tintin’s ears prickle. He cleared his throat nervously again.

“I’ll do my best,” he said lightly and squeezed the other’s palm. “Look after the Captain for me.”

Calculus assented and Tintin watched as the small man hobbled away down the path. He sat back down on the bench and pulled Milou up beside him, tangling his fingers through the tightly curled fur.

“Strange times we are living in, eh Milou?” he murmured aloud. “I should never have thought things would ever be like this.”

-

As he hurried back up the drive to Moulinsart, Calculus could not hide the pleased smile that plagued his face. He scuttled up the front steps and pushed past Nestor who was waiting at the door to take his coat.

“Where is Haddock?” he asked, looking about excitedly. “Oh Nestor, I think I’ve had a break through.”

Nestor blinked at him.

“A breakthrough, Professor-” he started but Calculus flapped at him, cutting him off.

“Later, later, Nestor! I’ll explain all. But I need to speak to the old man now!”

“He’s out boxing in the garden I believe, Professor.” Nestor motioned towards the back of the house.

“He’s fox hunting?”

“No, boxing!” Nestor made a funnel with his hands around his mouth. “BUH-OXING.”

“Now there’s no need to shout,” Calculus made a huffing sound and pressed hastily on through to the garden. Haddock was out in his vest, throwing right hooks and swift jabs against the leather. Even from the patio, Calculus could see the grit of his jaw and the shine of his sweat against his forehead.

“Captain!” Calculus stood and called. Haddock dropped his arms and turned to look at him.

“Thundering typhoons, Cuthbert, what do you want?” He snapped. He wiped his forearm over his forehead and pushed back his hair. “I’m busy, can’t you see?”

“I have an urgent need to speak with you, Haddock!” Calculus called. “Please come inside at once.”

Haddock sighed and threw the boxing gloves to the floor and stomped back up the lawn. He muttered curses under his breath, knowing the other would be unable hear them. He followed the other man into the parlour and into the chair obediently as Calculus gestured, with his arms folded and a deep scowl on his red face. He glared at him expectantly.

Calculus settled himself on the settee across from him,  
“Look – you might think I’m a blithering idiot,” Calculus started. “And, perhaps I am sometimes. But you must take me seriously when I say this...”

Haddock, taken aback by Calculus’ cutting lucidity, shifting awkwardly in his chair

“I don’t think you’re an idiot, Cuthbert,” he muttered. “It’s just sometimes your seeming inability to have an actual conversation is unappealing.”

“No, no, it doesn’t hurt my feelings,” Cuthbert said with a good natured flap of his hands. Haddock suppressed the urge to roll his eyes.

“I’ve just come back from meeting with Tintin,” he said. He saw Haddock stiffen and grip the arms of the chair tightly. He averted his gaze from Cuthbert.

“Wonderful. Brilliant. Fantastic – what are you telling me for?” He snapped. “I don’t care if you still wish to see him.”

Calculus brushed straight on. “And I’ve come to a realisation,” said he, shifting excitedly on the seat. “I always had my suspicions, you know. You were always so close, you two...”

Haddock flushed and looked uncomfortable.  
“Cuthbert,” he started, a bite of warning, but Calculus raised a hand to stop him.

“In hindsight it’s really so obvious. The way you looked at that boy, it was something out of a Hollywood movie,” Haddock’s cheeks darkened. He said nothing. “So I’m assuming that whatever… tiff, that has occurred between you was probably… romantic?”

“Something like that,” Haddock grunted. “I didn’t want him to have to deal with the ugliness of it all. You know – when he came back all black and blue that evening? And the brick through the window? It was….” he swallowed thickly. “It was horrible people, attacking him. Because they knew.”

“Yes – I’m assuming all that funny business with the windows being smashed was a threat of some sort,” Calculus continued and Haddock sighed audibly again. “So I’m assuming, knowing your good nature, you probably pushed him away to protect him?”

Haddock bristled again. Was he really that transparent? He’d never thought his nature was ‘good’; in the olden days he could drink and gamble Beelzebub himself under the table. He was careless with women, and men, and lived only for himself. That was, until a round faced young man had dropped almost into his lap and taught him how much it could mean to look at the world with love, rather than hate.

“He is one of the finest young people I’ve ever met,” Calculus went on. “And you are one of the finest _men_ I have ever met,” he looked up at the Captain earnestly. “And so I think that you both deserve each other, in some way. I think you should make amends, whatever they may be.”

“What should I do, Cuthbert? I can’t,” Haddock shook his head. “What if he doesn’t want me back? And besides, it’s far too dangerous. They were going to wreck his career.”

“I can assume that there will be perils,” Calculus said. “I suppose I don’t know much about... well. About living like that. But surely it is worth it, for someone like him? You’ve been miserable these past months. I know it’s because he is missing.”

Haddock exhaled, long and meditative. He felt a small warmth spreading from a point in his chest. Not a second went by where he didn’t feel Tintin’s absence heavy in the air. He missed him to death.

“I should speak to him.” he said after a moment.

“Well, I was going to suggest that you speak to him, but that could work too.” Calculus replied brightly. Haddock looked at him. For the first time in a long time, a small amused smile crept onto his face. He reached over and touched Calculus’ knee.

“Thank you, Cuthbert,” he said, very sincerely. “Thank you.”

-

There was a knock on the door. Tintin stiffened in his chair, the book falling shut in his lap. He glanced over at the clock on the mantel; ten to midnight.

“Hmm,” he frowned at the door and looked to Milou. “Who on earth could be calling at this time? Smells like trouble.”

He tiptoed into his study and took out the revolver from the drawer, clicking off the safety. He’d been hoodwinked by this trick too many times to take any chances. The door hammered again.

“Hello? Tintin? Are you in?”

“I’m armed!” he called back loudly and fingered the gun in his hand. “Who are you? What’s your business?”

“Blistering barnacles, it’s _me,_ lad,” the voice replied, sounding flustered. Tintin felt a jolt in the pit of his stomach. He hadn’t seen him in so long. He clicked the safety back on and tucked the pistol into the waistband of his trousers, wiping a hand over his face.

“Please, Tintin?” Haddock called again. Tintin frowned and breathed in deeply. He was trembling; he felt more anxious hearing that voice calling put through the wood than he had ever done facing down a firing squad. Milou gave a whine and skittered away from his ankles, pawing at the door. It seemed the coldness Tintin had cultivated towards the Captain had not extended to his dog. He sighed and moved very slowly over to the door. He pulled it open but did not take the chain off.

Through the sliver of space he saw the Captain; he was wet from the rain, hair shining and tousled in the faint lamp light of the landing. There was a pearly fuzz around him as the light shone through the droplets caught in the fibres of his woollen jumper. He looked distressed, eyes blood shot. Was he drunk? Tintin inhaled deeply but couldn’t smell the scent of whiskey in the air.

“What are you doing here?” he asked in a hiss. “You know Mrs Finch hates people having visitors past ten.”

“I- look, won’t you let me in?” Haddock said. “I just want to talk.”

“What makes you think I’ll do anything of the sort?” Tintin flashed. He made to shut the door with a huff but Haddock wedged the toe of his boot into the crack. He looked up at him, eyes desperate.

“Please, Tintin. I really need to speak with you.”

Milou made a small gruff noise and squeezed through the gap in the door, pawing at Haddock’s sodden trouser legs excitedly. The older man looked down fondly and clicked his tongue. “Hello, you old boy. Long time no see, eh?”

“Milou!” Tintin whistled sharply, feeling betrayed by his affections but the small dog continued to paw at the other’s feet. He frowned and touched his forehead briefly. “Alright… you can come in.” he unchained the door and pushed it aside. Haddock gave him a small grateful smile and came out into the flat. He looked around, a sheepish expression on his features. They stared at each other, the younger man stony faced, the older imploring.

“Thank you,” Haddock said softly, wringing his hands. “I just couldn’t sleep, I needed to-”

“It’s been nearly a year, Captain,” Tintin murmured, blue eyes wide. Haddock felt his gaze scanning over him.

“I know, lad. I know.”

They stood in silence for a moment. Milou made a soft grumbling noise in his throat.

“Would you, er, like some coffee?” Tintin offered briskly. His facial expression was impenetrable – Haddock was unsure if this was an olive branch. He nodded quickly.

“Please, that would be a good start.”

He followed the younger man into the kitchenette. The ceiling bulb hummed in the background and cast them in a balmy light. Tintin, slowly, set about the ritual of making coffee. He pulled the percolator off its shelf and reached for his small tub of ground coffee. His hands were unsteady and he clung onto the motions as a way of centring himself. If he could just concentrate on this menial task, he would be alright. He could deal with the salt scented man standing awkwardly against his icebox afterwards.

They stood, listening to the sound of the percolator boiling. Tintin turned away from Haddock, bracing his hands against the sideboard. Suddenly, remembering how to breathe seemed like such a feat. He tapped his fingers against the solid surface. _In, one two three. Out, one two three._

Of all the times he had brushed a hairs width from death, he had never felt so bleakly helpless as he did now.

Haddock felt full to bursting with all the words that were threatening to tumble out of him. He wanted fling himself to his knees and bury his face in the boy’s legs and tell him how sorry he was. He knew Tintin had no obligation to even hear him out, or forgive him, but he hoped deep from the pit of his soul that he would listen.

The percolator hissed, signalling it was done. Tintin, so tightly wound, jumped at the noise. Haddock watched him take out two cups and put them on the side and picking up the handle of the pot. His hands were shaking awfully and he slopped steaming brown liquid over the side as he poured.

“Ah, _crumbs-_ ”

“Thundering typhoons, boy, watch yourself!” Haddock instinctively lurched forward to grab the percolator from Tintin’s grasp. Their hands grazed one another and Tintin jerked away from him. A sharp pain hit Haddock in the chest.

“You sit down,” he said to him firmly. “I don’t want to have to cart you up to the emergency ward at this time of night.”

Tintin said nothing and pulled up a chair at the tiny table tucked to the side of the kitchenette. It felt odd being served in his own home but he was jittering wreck. He crossed his feet over and over again as he waited.

Then they were sitting, opposite each other, knees almost touching. The coffee scent was thick in the air and Tintin stared down at his cup, wary of the blush in his cheeks.

“Go on, then,” he said coolly. “Say what you must.”

“I-” the other man massaged his hands together. “I... I made a mistake.”

Tintin averted his gaze and rested his chin on his hand. Haddock thought he looked beautiful in the yellow light. “I thought I was doing what was right, and protecting you,” he carried on. “But you were right – I wasn’t fair to you. And I’m sorry.”

Tintin, hands shaking, lifted the coffee cup to his lips. He said nothing still. Haddock looked at him imploringly. “I would be lying if I said I wasn’t here to beg for you back,” he said. “I miss you, so much. I miss you in the morning sunlight and I miss you in your empty place at the dinner table, and I miss you late at night,” the words started to tumble from him. “And I’m not sure what I hope to gain from going off at you like this, like a blistering, blubbering troglodyte but… but...” he braced his forearms on the table, hands clasped together tightly. The skin of his knuckles was pulled tight. “I love you to distraction, Tintin. I really do. How I could have ever pushed you away… it, it-” he gasped and pressed his clasped hands against his forehead.

“You were cruel to me,” Tintin said finally. He fixed the Captain with a hard stare. “You broke my heart, Archibald. I have never felt pain like that in my entire life.”  
“I know, oh lad, I’m so sorry,” Haddock shook the table violent as his hands thudded back onto the table. “Please try and believe me when I say that I honestly, truly, meant it for your own good. I wanted to protect you. But… this time, perhaps we could be more careful? Or… or, if like you said, you wouldn’t mind if you had to give up the writing job… I don’t know… I’m rambling. Bashi-bazouks, it’s so hard to make sense.” Haddock sunk his head into his arms.

Tintin was silent again. Haddock’s words were thick in the air, he felt choked by them. He glanced over at Milou, dozing in his armchair. Then back at Haddock. For someone so warm, Haddock felt Tintin’s wordless stare was the coldest thing he’d ever felt in his life.

“So what if we did?” Tintin said. “Try again, I mean.”

Haddock raised his head to him. Tintin got up very slowly. He moved behind the other man’s chair, fingers pressing into the broad muscle of his shoulder. His breath was shaking in his chest. He squeezed him, once. Haddock turned in his arm and laced his arms tightly around his waist, pressing his face into the boy’s abdomen.

“I will need things to go slowly,” As Tintin spoke, Haddock felt his voice reverberate through his thorax. “And… we’d need to be careful, more cautious than before,” his hand curled tightly around the other’s neck. “But, I am willing. I love you far too much to let you leave me again.”

Haddock moved his arms down and swept Tintin into his lap, echoing the way they had sat that warm, fateful evening in front of the fire. Tintin laughed a little self consciously, flushing.

“Anything, anything you want,” Haddock said, kissing him gently from collarbone to earlobe to cheek to forehead. “I’ll do anything you ask of me.”

“Throw a lasso around the moon and pull it down for me?” Tintin asked with wry grin. Haddock looked confused.

“Jimmy Stewart? No?” Tintin gave another quiet laugh, looking shy. “It’s alright, I’ve already been there and done that. The moon is old news.”

“You are far too good for me,” Haddock muttered into the soft blue wool. He breathed in heavily – that scent of _vivre_ , fresh skin and youth. “How on earth someone like you could tumble into my arms escapes me. How I could have ever let you go is even further.”

“Well,” Tintin pressed their foreheads together, lacing their fingertips together and resting them against his chest. “Of all the adventures in the world, I’ve found there is nothing worth losing you, Captain.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the moon joke is the quote from 'it's a wonderful life' said by jimmy stewart. idk headcanon that tintin absolutely loves mushy classic romance movies.
> 
> thanks for reading folks ! this has been a rly nice look into characterisation and conversations heh


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